Milo Tomb

6. Last signing in America for a while

2010-03-25T13:16:00.001-07:00

4. Book Review - Countdown

2010-03-25T13:15:00.002-07:00

1. Introduction

2010-03-25T13:15:00.001-07:00

The Last Night in London

2009-05-13T01:12:00.000-07:00

When we got back, I went to the hotel bar. Burbank didn’t want to go, so he went along to bed, or so I thought. When I got back to my room an hour later, I found that he somehow had gotten in and was hiding in the cloak closet. He jumped out at me as I walked in, and I nearly died of fright. I went all white and went “Wahh!” I thought for a moment it was Jack the Ripper. I was probably a little bit drunk, which helped an already well-crafted prank along. Burbank told me that he noticed he can feel his expression change underneath his skin but he has to exaggerate it to let other people see his emotion. Since I had such a stupid look on my face when he jumped out at me, he said I must have felt pretty darn stupid. I think there’s some logic in there somewhere. Then I kicked him out and went to sleep. I get cranky when I’m drunk.

Jack the Ripper Walk

2009-05-12T22:05:00.000-07:00

After the horror writer group meeting, we went on the Jack the Ripper Walk. The guide was sufficiently creepy. I was shaking in my boots the whole time. For a horror writer, I can be a wuss sometimes, but I suppose that makes sense. Horror writers all probably have quite a strong sense of fear because if they were brave, how would they know what makes readers tremble?

Some woman on the tour recognized me from my dust jacket photo. She didn’t have a book with her, obviously, so she had me sign her blouse. It was a little awkward because all I had was Lenore’s eyeliner pen to sign with. I’m sure it will come off in the wash.

Horror UK

2009-05-12T20:13:00.000-07:00

Tonight’s event was at a library. I did a little presentation at a weekly meeting of horror writers. Horror UK, they’re called. There’s about 20 of them, mostly retired men. Most of it was Q&A. Burbank transcribed some of the best questions here for you:

1. What is it about horror writing that you like? Would you ever write a different sort of genre?

I grew up reading scary stories. It must just be that feeling that you get when you read a really good scary story that can’t be found when you’re reading Jane Austen or something. I write some mystery sometimes because there’s an innate structure. It’s like it’s already outlined and I just have to fill in the blanks. Like Mad Libs. I guess romance and sci-fi and all those have structures too, but I’m not familiar with them, so I don’t try.

2. What’s your writing process?

It doesn’t involved coffee or alcohol. I feel like everyone always says it’s about the drink. Umm, I do a lot of prewriting—by hand—and then I write an outline. I’m an outliner. Then I just sit down and write it start to finish. I always go back and do a lot of rewriting. When I’m happy with that, I send it to my agent who sends it to an editor. Then we do a few more drafts, and it’s done.

3. What do you read?

Everybody reads Stephen King, I think. Bentley Little is good. If you’re looking for something different, I do buy a lot of memoirs.

4. Are you worried about all this talk about ebooks?

I’m excited about it, actually. It’s going to screw things up for a little bit while they try to sort out prices and logistics, but we’re moving into a new age. Not that it’s going to push print out. It’s too tactile to ever really go away.

5. How important is it for an author to have a website?

Oh, very. Mine’s still what you might call Beta mode. It’s a great ad tool as long as people are able to find it when they search for your name and as long as you supply them with information on where to buy your work and how to contact you. Social media’s important too. They say to get on Facebook and Twitter and all that to sell your brand. I even have a blog now, apparently.

6. How did you land a publishing deal?

Uh, the way most people do. I’m from New York, so I know some people who work in the book industry. When you’re a novelist, you can’t keep it under wraps very well because eventually your friends begin to get suspicious as to why you’re cooped up in front of your laptop all the time. So my manuscript got shown around for a while before Lenore said she wanted to represent me.

7. How much control do you have over the final product?

Well, I do sign off on everything. I’m pretty fortunate to be able to work with the editor as long as I do to make sure the content is the best it can be. Sometimes a book is so rushed, it doesn’t get the kind of revision it needs before going to press. As far as book covers and things like that, I don’t really have much to do with that, but I really can’t complain. Covers and titles sell the book. That’s their only job.

8. Where’s your favorite place to see your books?

Readers’ hands, I think is the appropriate answer. Sometimes I might see someone reading one of my books in the subway and that feels good. I’m not a huge fan of seeing them on Google’s books because I don’t know how I’m supposed to make a living if you can read the whole book for free, but I don’t mind Amazon giving away a sample chapter. I’d like to see my book on an e-reader someday. We haven’t gotten around to that yet, but someday. I know they have my books at the chain store, so sometimes I’ll pop into an indie store just to see if they stock my novels, and it feels good to spot them on the shelves there too…unless they’re in the bargain bin.

9. What are you working on now?

This book tour. No, I have some ideas stewing in my head for the next Angela Beam novel, but I’m not giving anything away.

10. Where do you get your inspiration?

Oh God. I knew that one was coming. Um, I really should have an answer prepared, but I don’t think there’s exactly some well of inspiration that I draw from. I might just hear something on the news that triggers an emotion or concept. My biggest advice is to read widely, not just in the genre. I don’t want to be like every other horror writer, so there’s elements of other genres in my horror novels too. I think that’s what feels so relatable.

Tea Time

2009-05-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

We went back to the hotel where Burbank made us each a proper cup of English tea. I was really impressed! It’s a much more complex task than dipping a teabag in some water. I was annoyed that it involved so many dishes and took so long, but it was well worth the wait. Tastes better than bloody Starbucks. (Of course, I had to go and ruin mine by putting honey in it, but I didn’t know the difference.) Here I was thinking Burbank had assimilated into American culture after all those years in New York. I stand corrected.

Shopping

2009-05-12T13:56:00.000-07:00

Lenore wanted to go shopping. She talked me into it by offering to buy me a proper British outfit. She must make a lot of money in the book industry. But I guess with a client as successful as me…

We went to Lillywhite’s because they had a sale. Lenore bought me a charcoal gray coat with belt buckles all over it that didn’t do anything but make me look like a twonk. Ah well, it only cost four pounds. She also got me some knock-off trainers for seven pounds. She really has an eye for deals. She didn’t buy anything for Burbank, though. I donated my old trainers to him in case he wants to make some more art, which he will.

Tate Modern

2009-05-12T12:34:00.000-07:00

We went to the Tate Modern museum because Burbank wanted to make another generous donation. While we were there, we surveyed their collection of art. I don’t really get modern art, like most Americans, I guess. I have so much to learn! I kept saying stupid things like “I could have done that.” But I didn’t, now, did I? It’s not about the product but what it represents. Why does expression have to be challenging? One day I will understand these things.

Burbank tried to donate his sculpture of a little man wearing clothing made our of the canvas of old trainers. The body was mostly paper mache and paint with a few bits of copper for teeth and hair. The museum didn’t want it, said something about selection process. They’re like me. They don’t get art. They’re just running a business. What a disgrace.

Burbank left the little shoe-clothed statue outside the front of the building and made him a little sign that said “Meeting for Tate’s rejections—All are welcome.”

English Breakfast

2009-05-12T10:11:00.000-07:00

It’s our last day in London. I’ve declared this day English Day. I told Burbank I’ve decided to use this tour as a way to soak up other cultures and broaden my horizons. So, I’m going to be as English as possible today. I’m pretty confident in my chameleon abilities, but Burbank doesn’t think so.

The three of us—me, Burbank, and Lenore—went to a restaurant down the road from the hotel for a proper English brecky. We ordered a lot of food—I mean a lot of food—and most of it I couldn’t identify. Vegetables stuffed into organs of animals I wouldn’t normally eat, I was told later. I ate more than I should have for my figure. Then I went to the toilets and puked my guts out. I’m so American.

Book Signing Number 2

2009-05-11T18:46:00.000-07:00

I think I know how William Shatner feels. Get this, right? I show up to the store 45 minutes before the event starts and there’s already like five people there. How do I know they’re there to see me? They’re all wearing long, red wigs!

For anyone who hasn’t read my novels (seriously, why are you here then?), my protagonist, Angela Beam has really long, red hair. It’s sort of her signature.

I assumed the five knew each other and planned this, but none of them spoke to each other the entire night. Freaky.

I ended up with about 25 people in the audience and we had books for everyone. A guy called Roger handed me his manuscript, tied in a shiny purple ribbon, as if I’m some kind of literary agent or something. I could have told him to give it to Lenore, but she wouldn’t have read it. I just smiled at the guy and slid the manuscript under my chair. I threw it away once I got back to the hotel. What a snobbish dick am I. It’s a good thing Burbank was there to fish it out or else this Roger guy’s story would never see the light of day. And it’s good, Roger if you’re reading this. I trust fellow author Burbank’s literary judgment like I trust my own.

He added another thing to Things Burbank Notices, my favorite yet. “Bookstores smell like a varnished forest.” Poetic, that. Hate to think of what they’ll smell like when everything goes digital.

2:45

2009-05-11T14:48:00.000-07:00

Finally picked up and told Burbank to meet me at the chain bookstore in half an hour.

1:50

2009-05-11T13:54:00.000-07:00

I didn’t answer the phone again. Probably taking another wee.

1:30

2009-05-11T13:38:00.000-07:00

Burbank called me when I was somewhere near Westminster, but I was in the lou.

Lunch at the Cafe

2009-05-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

The next time Burbank called, I was having lunch with Lenore in a cafe in Covent Garden. I was wearing a blue shirt with the name of my favorite band on it, and blue jeans, which they tell Americans never to wear. And my silly red scarf, of course. The air was too warm for a scarf, but I thought it made me look hip or something. I was dining on a pesto pasta salad with a tall glass of ice tea. I was a little annoyed there was no lemon slice on the glass. Lenore ate some kind of chicken dish, I guess. It was a nice lunch, but I always get anxious a few hours before my signings.

Underground

2009-05-11T10:20:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to meet Lenore at Covent Garden, but I got lost on the Tube. I spent nearly an hour wandering the multiple platforms of the Northern Line because I couldn’t get it through my little head about how there can be more than one branch of the same line. Doesn’t help that the Northern Line doesn’t run properly most of the time anyway.

When I finally came up for air, I saw that I had a message from Burbank on my mobile, which doesn’t get a signal underground. Being the concerned friend that I am, I worried something horrific might have happened like the hotel had burnt down or somesuch. But no, he was calling to see what I was doing so that he could write my blog. I told him about getting lost and had him explain to me how I could walk to Covent Garden via MapQuest.

Refusal to Fail

2009-05-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

I’m out on my own today. Well, I say my own. Lenore’s with me. I told Burbank to stay at the hotel so that Lenore and I can have some alone time. He was reasonable enough to allow it because he knows he’ll get to be the best man in our wedding. I told him if he’s good, which he will be, he can come to the signing tonight. This one will be bigger, guaranteed. Burbank found a listing in Time Out, which means people will actually know about the event. I think that was the problem last time—lack of press. There will be no more failures on this trip!

Book Signing Number One

2009-05-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

Well, that went well. My first ever European book signing. I spent all day running around the city, trying to get copies of my book because the store hadn’t got its shipment. I was a nervous wreck while Lenore drove us over. Five books. Five new books and a few older ones. How would I decide who gets them? First come first serve? Have a contest? Give it to the most pathetic people there? Oh, God.

Do you know how many people attended my first European book signing?

One.

A little old fellow in an orange stocking cap and a blue button-up with threads sticking off it all over. I didn’t know what to do. If it would have been completely empty, I could at least cancel, but when you’ve got one person who’s made the effort to come all the way out here, I felt too embarrassed to let him down, so I started reading from my book. I kept thinking somebody else will walk in, but they didn’t. I even had a question and answer session. The man asked how much the books would cost. I told him six pounds twenty. He bought one of each title. When I gave him an autograph, I asked him his name. He said “Philip Wheeler.”

Burbank nearly had a conniption. To his list of Things Burbank Notices, he added “There is no such thing as coincidence. Everything is connected to Mother Nature who is out to get me.”

He’ll be staying in tomorrow.

I just wanted some pizza

2009-05-10T18:11:00.000-07:00

Burbank and I spent the next couple hours wandering the mall. I bought a t-shirt at the French Connection that says FCUK on the front. Burbank rolled his eyes at me, but I can’t help think it’s funny—I’m American.

We took a walk along the canal. Burbank practically fell it in at one point when a bicyclist whizzed by him. They should really require bikers to have bells. Anyway, Burbank’s trouser leg only got wet up to the calf. I do hope he didn’t get any parasites from that water. It looks awfully chowdery.

We met up with Lenore at 5 p.m. at the Oxford Circus Pizza Express. This is not the sort of pizza I’m used to in America. I ordered the ham/asparagus/egg pizza thinking I’d get pizza with squares of ham, slices of asparagus, and bits of scrambled egg evenly strewn over a bed of cheese and sauce. The cheese and sauce was right anyway. What I got instead was four stalks of asparagus making a square around a fried egg on a slab of raw pork. When Burbank saw my expression, he laughed so hard, he had tears streaming down his face. I think it was the highlight of his day.

Hell and Angel

2009-05-10T16:46:00.000-07:00

We went to the N1 Centre, a mall near Angel Islington. This involved a ride on London’s double decker buses. I’d read in the paper how someone had driven under a low bridge in one of those and decapitated the bus, hurting loads of people. Not sure if anyone died. For this reason, I insisted we sit on the bottom half of the bus.

We were just turning onto Upper Street when a man jumped out in front of the bus and put his arms out like he thought he could make himself look big. The driver had plenty of time to stop because he wasn’t going very fast. The driver jumped off the bus to deal with him. I couldn’t really hear what the issue was, but the man wore a big tan winter coat even though it’s May. He was probably a loony. I heard him shout something about his wife. The only thing I can work out is that this bus driver had slept with the man’s wife and this man had been sitting here, waiting all day for this bus to come by so he could beat him up. It didn’t work very well. After one blow to the driver’s head, the driver had him in a headlock and pressed his face to the curb. At this point, I tugged on Burbank’s jacket to signal to him that we’d better get off here and walk the rest of the way. It must have been National Transportation from Hell day in London. That’s all I can figure.

It wasn’t far to the mall. It was a pretty walk, too, looking at all the little shops and restaurants. London has a lot of Italian restaurants, I guess because they’re so close to Italy, at least compared to New York, which has its fair share of pizzerias at that. Eventually we got to someplace called Islington Green, which had a big statue and some park benches in a little triangle. Across the street from that was the mall.

This was a cool mall, not so much because of the shops in it but because of the decoration—giant steel wings and a halo at the entrance and exit. Reminds me of some of Burbank’s sculpture work. There’s a two-story Borders in the mall. They only had one copy of my book. When I expressed my need for more copies, they asked me if I’d like to order more so many times that I eventually left the store without buying anything.

Mother Nature’s Revenge

2009-05-10T13:35:00.000-07:00

After hitting all the secondhand shops at Leicester Square, we only managed to score one copy of Sleepy Town High, my second novel. We decided to walk to Piccadilly Circus. On our way over, Burbank nearly got hit by a car. In fact, the car did hit him a little in the leg, but he whipped his leg around really fast to get out of the way. Sometimes I wonder if he’s got super powers. The thing about London traffic is not just that the cars come from the other direction—Burbank grew up in England, he’s prepared for that—but they actually seem to speed up in order to knock over pedestrians.

Burbank was understandably upset about the whole thing. “Wheels are destroying the planet,” he told me. “We couldn’t have smogged our way into global warming if nobody’d invented the wheel. It’s all my fault and now Mother Nature’s taking her revenge.”

I yelled at him then, right in front of everybody. “You didn’t fucking invent the wheel! It was a stupid dream that you should just forget. Now start watching where you’re going and grow up.”

I don’t think I’ve ever shouted at Burbank like that before. Well, not in public anyway. I regret it now. He didn’t deserve that. In fact, he probably is right about the whole reincarnation thing. I think I was just taking out my anger about the bookshop screw-up on him.

Waterstones at Piccadilly Circus had five copies of Blue Sock Death and a few of the old ones, so I bought them up, and we went to lunch down the road. I had a Rueben sandwich with chips. Burbank just had vanilla ice cream.

The Donation of Pepper

2009-05-10T10:45:00.000-07:00

After we’d got off the London Eye, Burbank and I headed for the nearest Tube station so we could buy some books from little shops near Leicester Square. On the way to the station, one of the wheels off Burbank’s rolling luggage broke off. He said isn’t it ironic how he invented the wheel and it was betraying him. I told him not to be paranoid.

We could only take the Tube as far as St. Paul’s because the Central Line was down after that, so we had to walk. Burbank’s arms became weak from lugging his heavy one-wheeled suitcase around, and I wouldn’t help him because I’m lazy.

“We’re not going to a museum today,” I said, “and you were going to give away your art for free anyway. Why not give it to a homeless man or woman? The poor can appreciate art, too.”

Burbank thought this was a genius idea and pulled out his figurine of St. George made entirely out of old salt and pepper shakers. He set it beside a grubby woman sleeping under an overpass. He left her the luggage, too.

We made our way to Leicester Square, me looking like a tourist with my nose stuck in a map. I asked the woman behind the counter if they had any books by Milo Tomb. She looked it up on her computer and said no they didn’t.

I made quite a scene, shouting at first and then letting out a groan of exhaustion and laying down on the floor. The woman didn’t like this and had me kicked out by her manager who sneezed on me when he was throwing me out. That’s rude, isn’t it? Burbank thought it was funny and took this picture of me:

The London Eye

2009-05-10T09:27:00.000-07:00

It was raining a little by the time Burbank and I got onto the London Eye, but that’s London for you. It will be gone by mid-day.

The London Eye is the tallest Ferris Wheel in Europe, but the cool thing is that you can walk about the carriage while it’s in motion. I made Burbank take a photo of me with Big Ben down below me. He spent most of the ride explaining how if it weren’t for him falling down that hill back in the dinosaur days, this Ferris Wheel would never have been built and we’d be hanging in midair hundreds of feet above the Thames right now.

I said something clever about how if there was a murder in one of these carriages, that’d make an excellent premise for a book because you have to stay in it for half an hour. I’m copyrighting that, by the way, so you can’t steal it.

When we were still up in the air, I got a call on my mobile phone. It was Lenore. She told me how she’d just got a call from the bookshop where the signing’s to be held and they say they haven’t got their shipment of books in. I said some naughty words, and a little girl’s dad, also in the carriage with us, shot me a mean look.

After I got off the phone with Lenore, I told Burbank we are going to have to go around town and buy up as many copies of my new book as we can find and the publishers will pay me back. Lenore’s going to Charing Cross Road and down Shaftsbury, and we’re going to Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus, and Angel Islington. Oh well. Even if we don’t get to the museums today, at least I will be seeing a lot of London.

Inventing the Wheel

2009-05-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

At 7:45 a.m., Burbank knocked on my door and woke me up. It was 15 minutes before my alarm went off, so I’d generally be annoyed, but he’d gone downstairs and fetched me an apple strudel, coffee, and this morning’s paper because he knows I like to do the crossword. I thought that was very kind, though not entirely surprising. However, I didn’t feel like doing the puzzle this morning. I didn’t even pretend to be interested despite all Burbank’s efforts going out on the street to pick one up from the man with the ratty gloves. I’m insufferably selfish sometimes.

The real reason Burbank woke me up 15 minutes before my alarm is because he was excited to share last night’s dream with me. In the dream, Burbank was a caveman. There were loads of other cavemen and cavewomen about, all living in caves and eating moss and bugs and that. Then Caveman Burbank tumbled down a hill and none of the other cavepeople bothered to help him. He rolled all the way down and hit his head on a rock. That must have jogged something in his brain because when he came to, he had an epiphany: rolling down a hill took less time than it would have to walk it. The rock he’d hit his head on was sort of flat and circular. He lifted it up, turned it on its side, and gave it a push. It rolled along for a bit, then toppled over. And thus the wheel was invented.

Burbank calls this dream a flashback. He reckons he must be the reincarnation of the inventor of the wheel. I think he’s probably right. Someone had to have invented the wheel, didn’t they? Why not Burbank?

Today, we’re doing a spot of sight-seeing. We’ll try to beat the crowd to the London Eye, maybe hit some museums so Burbank can donate his art, then meet up with Lenore for dinner before my book signing at 7:00 p.m.

Goodnight, London

2009-05-10T00:06:00.000-07:00

We each have our own hotel room. Burbank wanted to share a room, but I told him no because I’m a heavy sleeper, and the last time I left him alone in my apartment, he thought it would be a good idea to give my dog a haircut and change all the settings on my mobile phone to Spanish. I’ll not have that again.

I got ready for bed around 11. I've got these funny striped pajamas that make me look like an old man. I've also got ratty gray slippers that smell like smoke and mustard, but I couldn't bring the slippers because I've only got the one bag on this trip.

At 11:15, when I was brushing my teeth, Burbank tried to get in, but I'd locked the door. He knocked for a while and then started singing "The Wheels on the Bus" louder and louder until a bellhop made him go back to his room.

I sat up for a while doing the crossword in the Daily Mail until 11:45 when Burbank came knocking again, saying something about how he finally noticed something good and wanted to tell me about it.

I let him in because I'm nice.

"I've noticed something good," he said, showing me his blue notebook with the words "Things Burbank Notices" underlined at the top. On the first line, it said "sometimes when you live in a city that has lots of smog, your boogers turn black."

"That's very good," I told him. "You'll have to see if that's true for all the other big cities we visit."

"You’ve been places before," Burbank said. "Can’t you tell me?"

"No," I said, like a proverb-spitting mystical nymph. "These are things you'll have to notice for yourself."

"But I've never really been places. Will it be scary?"

I shrugged. "Yes, but I'll be there. To prop the door open if need be."

Burbank fluffled my hair. I pretend to hate it when he does that.

"You'll be my guide," he said. "My guide to Europe. My living tour book. My travel companion. My tourist information kit. My very own walking, talking Baedeker."

Then I sent him along to bed.

Dinner and a Basement

2009-05-09T23:24:00.000-07:00

I went to dinner with Lenore and Burbank at a fancy Greek restaurant called Myko's where we met a very nice old Hungarian man sitting at the table next to us. His name was T. R. and he was wearing a tuxedo. I felt under-dressed in my brown knit. He sat all alone, so Burbank offered a place for him at our table, which he accepted. He bought us a round of wine.

When he asked us each what we do, I humbly told him about my book series and the new book tour. Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed. Seriously, it was like somebody lit a firework inside his face. He went all shiny. "You are celebrity!"

I just shrugged. I am not a boaster.

"I am friends with many celebrities," T. R. said. "You would like to meet them?"

I don't think any of us really knew what he meant, but not wanting to be impolite, Burbank said that he did.

"Wonderful," T. R. said. "I own restaurant next door. I will show you my friends."

He led the three of us to the restaurant next door, which was at least five times bigger than the little Greek one, but probably just as posh. I looked into the eyes of all the people I could, partly to see if I recognized any celebrities and partly to make sure there were witnesses who could say they saw me here.

T. R. took us past everyone and to a little door on the side. He went down first, then Burbank. I paused at the top of the narrow stairway and looked down into the darkness. I could feel the coldness wafting up. I turned back to Lenore who said, "Don't," but Burbank was already down there and I’m too good a friend to abandon him.

T. R. rounded the corner, but Burbank stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at us. He asked if we were coming. I said that we were and crept down the stairs.

There was a dark hallway down here, next to the ladies' and gents' toilets. I still couldn't figure out where these celebrity friends were.

T. R. unlocked a door and opened it to reveal a bright little basement office with empty concrete walls and lots of boxes and papers on a desk. There weren't any celebrities.

Burbank followed him into the room. Lenore and I stood in the doorway, keeping the door propped open as if it would take two of us.

T. R. pulled out a briefcase and unlocked it. Burbank leaned his head closer. I held my breath. The briefcase sprang open to reveal over a hundred letters and postcards. T. R. picked up the top one. "Look," he said, pointing to a photograph. "That me and Tony Blair. You like it?"

Burbank nodded.

T. R. pulled out a letter. "'Dear T. R.' That me. 'Thank you for your support...' You know who this from? Look." He pointed to the signature. I couldn't see it from the doorway. For some reason, I thought if T. R. could close the door, he’d kill us all. I sure am silly sometimes.

He read aloud, "Ronald Reagan." He went on this way for twenty minutes, each letter or photo more impressive than the last.

Lenore said we needed to get back to the hotel. T. R. decided he'd shown enough of his treasure. "Okay," he said. "We go upstairs and take group photo!" He walked to the door and patted me on the back. "Photo with my new celebrity friends!"

We followed T. R. back up the eerie stairs and into the warm, candlelit restaurant where T. R. made one of his waiters take a photo of us all together. I was sweating a lot by this point. T. R. shook each of our hands and said good-bye.

In the parking lot, Burbank asked why I'd made a funny face for the camera. I told him that I wanted to look the least like myself in case this bloke ever tries to hunt me down. I know. I worry too much.

We're in London!

2009-05-09T21:30:00.000-07:00

London: that's me on the right

Heathrow only returned two of Burbank's bags. They probably thought the life-size metal sculpture of a cat skeleton in the largest piece of luggage was a joke. In fact, it probably was a joke. Burbank says he would have loved to see their little faces as the luggage went through the x-ray machine. I told him he couldn't eat his cake and have it too. Burbank asked if I meant that he couldn't donate beautiful sculptures to the London Gallery and use them for cheap airport gags too. I told him that's right.

My agent, Lenore, was waiting for us downstairs in the meet and greet area. She's young and hip and has two-tone hair and always wears a flower behind her ear. Always. I think we'll probably get married some day.

I hadn't told Lenore that Burbank was coming on the trip. I guess I wanted it to be a surprise. I had to explain to her why he was coming on the book tour. You see, as I mentioned, he's also a writer, and is part of a critique group called The Penned Antics. They told him that a key part of being a writer is noticing stuff. Like when a bee almost flies in your ear, your whole body goes goose-pimply, stuff like that. But they say—well, mostly just this skuzzy bloke called Nicky Drendle—he says that Burbank's not particularly good at noticing stuff. That he needs to live life before he can write about it. So when I said I'm going on this tour, he thought, brilliant, I shall travel the world to notice things and become a successful author like Milo.

I'm sure he'll be the best noticer ever by the end of the month.

I almost died today

2009-05-09T20:30:00.000-07:00

me (Milo) on the plane

I never regretted the penname Tomb until I almost ended up in one today. Fated to a watery grave. We'd been flying for over seven hours. We were somewhere off the coast of Wales, I think. Suddenly, all the lights went out and the plane tipped forward.

People started screaming. The lady next to me sicked up all over my khaki pants. I started to weep like a baby. Then, in the darkness, an electric blue glow. The man across the aisle blubbered apologies into his mobile phone.

Burbank was already on it. He had switched to the window seat halfway through the flight because I'm afraid of heights and didn't want to look out at the beautiful clouds. Anyway, Burbank climbed over me and the lady who'd gotten sick on me and launched himself into the aisle. He pounced on the man and snatched the phone away.

"Why d'you think they ask you to turn off your phones?" he shouted at the man. "They mess with the instruments!"

The man just sort of flopped his mouth open, greasy tears jammed in the wrinkly creases on his fat face. "Wha...?"

Burbank switched off the phone, and immediately the plane banked and then righted itself. The phone slipped from his grip and went skidding off down the aisle. The lights blinked a couple times and then snapped back on. Only then did the seatbelt sign come on.

I can't believe my best friend saved us from that stupid idiot and his mobile phone. I'm only 37, way too young to die, though maybe not if I lived in the middle ages. But they didn't have planes in the middle ages, now did they? Too young. Too much to live for. Burbank is my hero.

The New Tour

2009-05-09T16:30:00.000-07:00

Today I leave for Europe. I'm going on a month-long book tour. Accompanying me will be my agent, Lenore, and my best friend, Burbank. I'm very excited to get this opportunity to hang out with Burbank because we haven't had the chance recently since I've been so busy. He is also a writer, even, dare I say, better than me. He doesn't write genre fiction though--he's not that shallow. His most recent book, A Butterfly Tomorrow, is his philosophy on reincarnation in the 21st century. It took a lot of research, four years to write, and is out now on the publish-on-demand site called CreateSpace. You can pick up a copy now for only $4.00.

I’m lucky to have Burbank as my blog author. I’ve gotten some emails wondering if he is really qualified for the job, but I’ll have you know that with a background as a photojournalism student at ICP 1998 through 2001, he is very familiar with the visual and digital arts. Plus, he knows me better than anyone, having lived right down the hall from me in our apartment block in Manhattan for the last four and a half years.

Anyway, I’m up early because our plane takes off at 6:30 am. I'm sitting at the kitchen table eating a bagel and cream cheese. I'm wearing a brown sweater, khaki pants, and my silly red scarf that makes me look French. I'm having trouble answering the crossword in the Times, so I keep having to ask Burbank, who is sitting on my couch, writing my blog on his Blackberry. He always seems to know the answers.

I’m only bringing a softball duffle bag on this trip because I’m suspicious of airport baggage claims. Claiming baggage seems to be the one thing you can't do there. Burbank is bringing three suitcases. They're mostly filled with pieces of artwork that he plans to donate to museums across Europe. He's really an amazing artist. I bet he could get a lot of money for his sculptures, but he has such a big heart that he won't take any money for them. Europe will sure benefit from the culture he's giving them (He's from Teddington, just west of London, one of Europe's own).

Last signing in America for a while

2009-05-02T20:31:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, my fourth book Blue Sock Death came out last week. (You can buy it right now on Amazon.) Yesterday, I did a reading at Leave-it-to-me Books on Flushing Ave. It was quite a good reading, actually, probably the best I've done in a long while. Except the bit where I must have got something caught in my throat and tried to hack it out between sentences like no one would notice. It sounded like someone trying to start their car when they'd got a rat stuck in their engine. Reh-eh-eh-eh-ooahck. Yeah, that's a turn on, isn't it? After a page of that, I decided to just ignore the phlegm in my throat and try and talk through it. This resulted in my voice slipping in and out of puberty like I was caught in some sort of time machine, fluxing and flowing between child and adult. Maybe my next book will be about time travel.

But other than that, I thought the reading went brilliantly.

Introduction

2009-05-01T16:46:00.000-07:00

This isn't the first blog I've ever kept. I wanted you to know that in case you think I'm an amateur. (Previous works: link and link.) It is, however, the first blog I've written for someone else. That's right. My blogging skills are so phenomenal that I'm doing other people's blogs now.

And who better to blog for than America's newest and favorite horror author, Milo Tomb?

Let me tell you some things about my good friend Milo.

He's a brilliant writer, but of course you know that or why else would you be here?

His real name's not Milo Tomb. The publishers changed the name on his first book cover because they thought it looked better than Milo Tombone. That's funny, isn't it? I think he's a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.

He doesn't have time to write his own blog because he's busy writing books and signing them for all of you. (We're going on a book tour this summer, so you all should come to get autographed copies.) So, I said I'd keep it for him. I also do his website: keep it updated, take all the photos, create the content. There's even a video blog in the works.

All right. That's enough from me. From now on, this is only about Milo.

--BURBANK